


The Return of Arthur Lakedale

by jonius_belonius (Joni_Beloni)



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Brief Mike/Norma, Drama, Halloween, Humor, M/M, Minor Mike/Harvey, ghost story, marveyweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 22:16:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5107643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joni_Beloni/pseuds/jonius_belonius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike is working late and begins to hear strange noises.  Turns out the firm is haunted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Return of Arthur Lakedale

_Click … tick-tick-tick. Click … tick-tick-tick._

The faint sounds, repeated over and over, drifted to Mike from the opposite end of the otherwise silent floor.   He flipped to the next page of the seemingly endless stack of documents, breathed in and breathed out. The sounds repeated.

_Click … tick-tick-tick. Click ...tick-tick-tick._

The soft clicks ghosted through the office, sending an electric prickle of unease up and down his back with each repeat. He found himself listening intently, waiting through the pauses. Each time, the noise came again.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and reached for the nearly empty can of Red Bull, swigging down the remaining warm, sickly sweet drops. Three a.m., and he still had an inch thick stack of pages to work through. Scraping his highlighter over an incorrect citation, he sneered down at the page. How were these idiots even allowed to graduate from Harvard? He found another mistake, highlighted it, and then for good measure, he slapped on a post-it note and scrawled a pithy comment expanding upon the error and its egregious nature.

_Click … tick-tick-tick. Click ...tick-tick-tick._

What _was_ that? A jammed printer, perhaps? A contraband space heater left to run all night, which had run into problems? A paper shredder gone rogue?

If it was simply a mechanical hazard, wasn't he duty-bound to investigate, fix it or turn it off, and prevent a potentially greater disaster? He should stand up, walk down the hallway, and have a quick look. As he debated, without realizing what he was doing at first, he tapped his highlighter on the desktop, gradually syncing up with the phantom noises. _Tap … tap-tap-tap. Tap … tap-tap-tap._ He tossed the highlighter to the desk and shook his head, irritated and impatient. What was he even doing here?

After six full months in the exposed-nerve, insane blender of shifting and conflicting priorities that was the reality of life as Harvey Specter's associate, he should have been used to working late. He certainly should have been used to the hushed, creepy aspect the firm took on around this time in the morning. He'd experienced it more than his fair share of times.

Any other late workers who had the chance to run home for a quick sleep, shower, and change of clothes had already done so. The only people left at this hour would have given in to the inevitability of spending the night, of charging into a new day on an adrenaline rush of "holy shit I stayed up all night," and then going full zombie around two in the afternoon.

Tonight found Mike stationed at his desk in the bullpen. The last person he'd seen tonight was Harold, who had passed by around midnight, on his way to the elevators. He hadn't yet decided if remaining where he was would be more or less unnerving than tucking himself away in one of the workrooms. Out here in the open, he felt vulnerable to attack. Anyone could sneak up on him, especially with his earbuds channeling music into his head, which is why he’d yanked them out an hour ago.

_Click … tick-tick-tick. Click … tick-tick-tick._

Holing up in one of the workrooms might appear, theoretically, to be safer. One could shut the door, lock it, jam a tipped up chair underneath the doorknob. But then, right there you'd also cut off your only escape route, trading it for a temporary illusion of safety.

He worked his head back and forth on his neck, trying to ease his tension. Wow, he was really getting into some paranoid territory tonight. Must be because he was so tired. Maybe if he asked nicely, Harvey would give him the afternoon off, and he could actually get some decent, uninterrupted sleep. He almost laughed out loud at that -- except he knew from past experience that the sound of a solitary laugh echoing up and down the halls at three in the morning was a definite spine-chiller. Almost as creepy as …

_Click … tick-tick-tick. Click … tick-tick-tick._

He ground his teeth together, seething. If someone intended to drive him nuts, they’d hit upon an excellent method.

_Just ignore it._

Exhaustion made his eyelids begin to droop. He sat straighter, blinking rapidly. He just needed to get through these last pages, then he could get a couple hours of sleep. That would likely not suffice to get him through the day with any semblance of coherent thought and speech, but if he requested time off at this point in his career, Harvey would accuse him once more of "not getting it." Whatever that even meant.

He thought about starting a pot of coffee, but he didn't feel like getting up, walking around, putting a target on his -- _Shit_. He really was paranoid tonight. He did laugh this time, and the sound was every bit as eerie as he'd feared it would be.

After the reverberations of his voice stopped, he could have sworn he heard a faint, answering cackle from the other end of the floor. Followed by:

_Click … tick-tick-tick. Click … tick-tick-tick._

He ordered himself to ignore it, both the soft clicks and the laughter. It was either his imagination, or a weird trick of acoustics. There was the possibility that another person was gutting out the long night, just like he was. They could be mocking him, or taunting, or perhaps simply reaching out across the deserted floor for some human contact.

He immediately discounted that last theory. He hadn't met anyone yet at this firm that gave a shit about human contact. They only wanted to win, and impress, and succeed and beat everyone else by any means necessary – including going full _Gaslight_ on them. If that’s what this was.

A yawn caught him suddenly, forcing his mouth wide, cracking his jaw, and making him let out an involuntary " _whoop_ ," which he swallowed immediately.

Five seconds later, the " _whoop_ " echoed back at him, coming from the same direction as the earlier laugh. Except it wasn't the same slightly high-pitched expulsion of air, but something lower and more deliberate, as if someone had spoken the word, tasting it, and wondering over it.

Which was...creepy.

Mike stayed quiet for as long as he could, even breathing more softly. His ears were perked up, listening for anything out of the ordinary. Other than the usual creaking floors, all was quiet, all except for those _clicking sounds_.

"What in the holy hell....?" he breathed.

The sounds came again: _Click … tick-tick-tick. Click … tick-tick-tick._ A pause, just long enough for him to draw one slow breath, and then another. _Click … tick-tick-tick. Click … tick-tick-tick._

He breathed in, breathed out, and waited.

And waited.

No more sounds drifted his way. He should have been happy. No action on his part required. Perversely, he did not feel happy. He felt messed with.

With a sharp exhalation, he stood up. Searching the desktop for a weapon (just in case) with which to defend himself, he found nothing. Holding the highlighter in front of him like a diminutive sword, Mike strode down the hallway, staying up on the balls of his feet as much as he could for greater stealth. Every office he passed was dark, every desk empty. Emergency lighting lit the hallway, sending shadows stretching in front of him.

He made a right turn, heading now for the corner furthest from his desk. Was that a scuffling sound up ahead?

"Hello?" he ventured.

The scuffling stopped. Silence fell, except for the sound that Mike's careful feet made on the carpet, and his soft, agitated breathing. At the corner, the door to the file room stood open. Inside, the fluorescent lights flickered, fickle and sickly, picking out metal shelves stacked with box after box of carefully labeled documents.

Preparing to feel foolish, Mike stuck his head inside the room. Papers spread across the work table. An unplugged electric stapler lay on the floor, next to an expensive pen, a tipped over paper cup and a puddle of coffee, most of which had soaked into the carpet.

Mike stepped into the room. "Hey. Anyone still here? Harold?"

Movement behind one of the tall shelves caught his eye. Furtive, shadowy movement. He froze, listened, and took another cautious step forward. "I just wanted to see -- "

The door slammed shut behind him, and the lights went out.

 

******

_Click … tick-tick-tick. Click … tick-tick-tick._

 

******

 

Eight in the morning and the goddamn kid was not at his desk. Most of the Harker documents appeared to have been thoroughly perused, proofed and annotated, but Mike was nowhere to be seen. A small stack of untouched pages told him that Mike had not completed his task. His earbuds lay messily on the desk, next to a can of Red Bull.

Scowling, Harvey picked up the can, shook it, and found it empty. The firm's logo filled Mike's computer screen, meaning he had been away from his desk for more than fifteen minutes, and the screensaver had come on.

Harvey scooped up the unproofed documents and headed down the hall.

"Mike's not at his desk," he informed Donna, who stood up and followed him into his office.

"He was probably up all night."

"I don't care."

"I'll find him."

"If you can't, grab another associate to sort through and organize the mess on his desk. I'm meeting with the client this afternoon, and I need something to show them."

"I'm on it."

Donna returned to her desk, and Harvey settled in behind his, fighting down his annoyance at yet another failure on Mike's part. The kid had so much potential, but couldn't seem to string together two consecutive days of adequate work ethic, much less the one hundred and ten percent Harvey expected from his associate every goddamn day.

Twenty minutes later, a flash of red at his door drew his attention. "He's not answering his phone," said Donna.

"Must have overslept again."

"No. I went by his desk, and guess what I found?" She spared him guessing by holding up Mike's phone for him to see.

"So he forgot his phone when he went home."

"His bike is still locked up downstairs."

Harvey moved restlessly as irritation spiked through him. "Would you please just find him for me?"

"You got it, boss."

She disappeared for nearly an hour this time. Upon returning, she frowned at him from the doorway. "Seems we have a bit of a Halloween mystery on our hands," she declared.

"Did you find Mike?"

"No, but -- "

"Then I don't care."

She came into the room and closed the door behind her. "Mike never left the building last night. I had Benjamin check the security feed."

Harvey sighed. "And yet, he's not standing in front of me." He took a closer look at her. She appeared deeply and genuinely concerned. "I'm sure he's just napping in one of the workrooms."

"I rounded up three associates and two paralegals to comb every floor. They didn’t find him, and they looked everywhere." She paused for two beats. "Almost everywhere."

_Oh, shit_. He knew where this was headed. With no expectation of success, he sought to head her off at the pass. "Don't say it, Donna."

"No one looked in -- "

"I beg of you. Do not say it."

"In forty-three west," she intoned.

Harvey groaned and rubbed his forehead. "No one even knows about that anymore, besides the old-timers. You only know because you're inherently nosy."

"And I know all."

"And you know all. Although why you would want to is beyond me. I just wish to god you hadn't found it necessary to share with me."

"Anyone would have been curious to find dusty old Paul Porter laying a bouquet of lilies in the corner of that file room every October thirty-first. I mean, that's eccentric, even for him."

"There is no ghost in that file room, Donna. And even if there was, so what? People have died in every crack and corner of this city. There could be three ghosts in this room with us right now. Everywhere we go, ghosts are probably stacked up like cordwood, each one believing they have a story more fascinating than the next."

"Not all of them were murdered. And I'll bet hardly any had their heads bashed in with a heavy-duty electric stapler."

He breathed slowly, lecturing himself to remain calm. "If you think Staple Head had something to do with Mike's disappearance, why not check inside that room?"

"Don't mock the dead. And I haven’t checked because the door is locked, and unlike every other door at this firm, none of my keys worked." She stepped right to the edge of his desk, glaring down at him. "Furthermore, in case it has escaped your notice, not only is today October thirty-first, it is also exactly thirty years since Arthur Lakedale met his doom."

He gave a derisive snort. "Met his doom? Really? And after this Stapler of Doom introduced itself to his skull, he decided to stick around the Pearson Hardman workroom? That's not a spot I'd choose to spend eternity."

"His murderer was never caught. Arthur is the very definition of a restless spirit."

"And he kidnapped Mike because … ?"

"Harvey, don't make light of the situation."

"Okay, riddle me this.   If the door is locked, how did Mike get inside?"

"Obviously, it wasn't locked last night."

"Then why is it locked now?" Their gazes clashed for several seconds. He had known Donna for a long time, and sometimes it was too easy to read her. "Are you suggesting that the ghost locked the door? With his ghostly hands?"

With lips pinched together, she glowered -- glowered! -- at him. "Let's open the door and find out."

"Wouldn't it be easier to hold a séance or something?" The glowering continued unabated. "Fine. I'm sure Jessica has a key. We'll try her first, and if that fails, we can always disinter Paul Porter."

"Yeah, I see what you did there. Let's go."

 

******

 

_Cold. Cold and gray._

He was freezing. Mike couldn't see anything, and he didn't remember when he had ever been so fucking cold in his life. He tried to shiver, tried to raise a hand, tried to claw at the gray mist that surrounded him. His limbs refused to cooperate. It was as if all that existed were his thoughts. And the cold.

How had he gotten here? Where was he, exactly? He wanted to yell for help, but couldn't feel his mouth, or throat, or vocal cords. It wasn't that they were paralyzed, they simply weren't there.

_Harvey … Harvey!_

His nonexistent skull throbbed with the useless effort of launching the scream into existence.

_Shit. What was happening to him?_

He tried to think, to reason it out, and to remember the last thing that had happened before he woke up here. He'd been at work, he remembered that much. It was late, and he was alone.

Was he still alone? He strained his (nonexistent) ears for any sound which could provide a clue. At first, his hearing seemed as useless as his sight. He strained harder, and then finally was rewarded with a faint noise.

_Click … tick-tick-tick. Click … tick-tick-tick._

It scarcely seemed possible, but he grew colder still as memory returned in a rush. He'd heard that sound before. It had drawn him away from his desk and down the hall to investigate. He'd gone into the file room and then -- nothing. He'd been trapped in the dark until he woke up here, wherever this was.

_Click … tick-tick-tick._

God. That sound. It seemed so familiar. What was it? What the hell -- ?

_SHUT UP MICHAEL JAMES ROSS._

If he'd still had eyelids and eyeballs, Mike would have blinked in surprise.

_Who is that?_ he thought timidly at The Voice.

_SHUT UP AND FIND IT._

_Find what?_

Find it find it find it FIND IT FIND IT **_FIND IT FIND IT!_**

The cold deepened, and pain shot through his (currently missing) head. Gray darkened to black.

 

******

 

"Harvey," said Jessica, voice like cold acid, "if this is some sort of joke, I'm not finding it funny. Not in the least."

Harvey gave Donna an annoyed side eye. "Humor us." Meaning, _humor the nutty redhead with the weird ideas._

Jessica looked back and forth between the two of them, as if trying to gauge their sincerity.   "Has anyone gone by his apartment?"

Donna stepped forward. “Before we waste time on a trip to Brooklyn, why don’t we take a peek into that work room?”

Jessica lifted her hands in an exasperated shrug. “Fine. Knock yourself out.”

Harvey and Donna waited, exchanging perplexed looks.

“Could we have the key?” Harvey finally asked.

“I don’t have it. Talk to Paul Porter.”

“Great. The guy can’t stand me.”

“Because you mocked his bowties.” Harvey opened his mouth to argue, but Jessica made shooing motions with her hands. “Get out. Some of us have actual work to do.”

 

******

 

Donna led the way down two floors to Porter’s office. “How old do you think he is?” she asked.

Harvey shrugged, not in the least interested. “Sixty … sixty-five maybe?”

“So he would have been between thirty-five and forty when Arthur died.”

Harvey gave a non-committal grunt.

“That would make him around ten years older than Arthur. Do you suppose they were involved?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care.” He thought about it for a couple of seconds though. “That would explain the lilies. I dare you to ask him.”

“At least pretend to take this seriously.”

They had arrived at Porter’s office. Harvey paused in the doorway with Donna at his shoulder. The older man – wearing one of his signature bowties – sat behind his desk with a woman who looked even older than him. Harvey felt like he should know her, but couldn’t immediately dredge up a name. She was a withered little thing, with papery skin and dark button eyes that glittered as if they had seen too much of life.

“Norma,” exclaimed Donna, not bothering to hide her surprise. “Does Louis know you’re here? You know how anxious he gets when you’re away from your desk.”

“Do him some good,” Norma replied in a phlegmy smoker’s rasp.

_Norma. Right. The mysterious crone who Louis both loathed and swore he could not live without._ He’d long assumed that she had melded with her desk chair and drew sustenance from the walls and floors of the building – or perhaps from young, unsuspecting legal secretaries and paralegals.

“Can I help you with something?” Porter spoke directly to Donna, pointedly ignoring Harvey. For his part, Harvey was just as happy to let Donna take the lead on this.

“We have a … situation,” she said. “Mike Ross – that’s Harvey’s associate.”

“I know who he is.”

“He’s gone missing, and we've searched everywhere, except … forty-three west.”

Harvey half expected a sonorous “ _Dun Dun DUNH”_ to accompany her words. It may as well have, judging by the identical alarmed looks on the faces of Paul Porter and Norma the Crone.

“Oh dear.” Porter’s white face belied the mild words. He yanked open a desk drawer, and his fingers scrabbled inside, searching. “Tell me everything.”

Donna did the honors, explaining how Mike had worked late into the night, had evidently vanished into thin air, and could only (Donna’s assertion) be behind the locked door of forty-three west.

While Donna brought them up to speed, Harvey glanced around the office, and spotted a bouquet of white lilies wrapped in gold tissue paper, next to a box of … kosher salt? As his gaze moved on, he found Norma giving him a dark glare. He suppressed a shudder and returned his attention to Donna.

Porter appeared concerned but suspiciously unsurprised by Donna’s words. He finally produced a key from the far reaches of the drawer, and set it on his desk, where all four pairs of eyes locked onto it.

“There’s the key,” he said unnecessarily. “Before you take it, I need to explain a few things -- for your own safety.”

“We know about Arthur Lakedale,” said Harvey.

Porter’s face became even more drawn, and Norma actually gasped, as if in pain, and sat abruptly on the chair behind her.

“You know, eh?” Porter picked up the key and tapped it against the desk. “What do you _think_ you know? Let’s hear it.”

Harvey could sense Donna’s growing restlessness. “Harvey, don’t you think we should … ? You know. Open the door?”

“Let’s get the whole story first.”

"Better listen to him, young lady."

With obvious reluctance, Donna took the seat next to Norma, and Harvey stood behind Donna, arms crossed as he resisted the urge to tap his foot with impatience.

Taking this as his cue, Porter began his story. “Thirty years ago, I had just been made senior partner. Arthur was my associate. Shiny as a new penny and Harvard educated. Damned smart, too. Never had to tell him something more than once. I swear, if that kid was alive today, his name would be up on the wall.”

“What happened to him?" asked Harvey. "Besides the stapler that slammed into his skull.”

Norma made a choked noise and blew her nose into a crumpled handkerchief. “My poor, poor Arthur,” she sniffed.

Both Harvey and Donna’s heads whipped over to stare at Norma. Donna beat him to the obvious question. “You ... and Arthur?”

Rapidly regaining control, Norma glared back at them. “Why do you sound so shocked? I was quite the babe back then.”

_Cougar, more like,_ Harvey mused. She was at least as old as Porter, and he'd be willing to guess she had five or ten years on him, which made her close to twenty years older than Lakedale. But … whatever. The heart wants what the heart wants.

Porter chuckled. “It’s true. You still are, my dear.”

An uncomfortable silence fell. _Agree to disagree_ , thought Harvey, and suspected Donna was having an identical reaction.

“Anyway,” said Donna when the silence had stretched too long, “Arthur was your associate and Norma’s, er … Norma’s … ”

“My lover.” Or _luuvah,_ as she pronounced it in her best Norma Desmond voice.

“Hmm,” grumbled Porter. “Yes, well, we were working on a difficult case. Our client – Murray Industries – was embroiled in a lengthy dispute in Uruguay, attempting to obtain mineral rights for a piece of land which promised to yield tremendous reserves of crude oil. Never could seem to gain any traction. Every potential advantage we discovered was summarily shot down in court.”

“Yes,” added Norma, “and it didn’t help Arthur to have that little weasel dogging his every step.”

“What weasel was this?” asked Harvey.

“Daniel Hardman. He was hired a month before Arthur.”

“Who hired him?”

“Clerval.”

“Who?”

“Exactly. A year after Arthur died, Clerval was voted out of the firm. Daniel Hardman supposedly discovered evidence of misconduct and ‘reluctantly’ turned him in.”

Mildly interesting, but Harvey didn’t care to hear about Hardman’s past maneuvering. He was all too familiar with the man's unsavory style. “Tell us about Arthur’s final day.”

Porter took up the story. “He was working late, the night before Halloween. He always took detailed notes, and at some point during the night, he wrote these words, 'Ah ha! I found it. We’ve got him by the short and curlies now'.”

“Got who?” This from Donna.

“Good question. We never found out. When Norma unlocked the door – “

“Wait. The door was locked?” asked Harvey.

“That’s what I just said. The door was locked, and poor Arthur was splayed out on the floor, a puddle of blood spreading around a severe head wound and soaking into the carpet, his last cup of coffee and favorite pen next to him. Quite dead already. That damn stapler lay next to him, still plugged in and clicking away every few seconds like one of those little chattering teeth wind up toys.”

“And,” interjected Norma, scowling, “the documents he was working had been boxed up again. We never knew what he discovered. And even though the police were called, and were quite thorough, the murderer was never found. They were ninety-nine percent sure it was an inside job.”

“Wait. Someone who worked here killed a fellow employee, and they were never found? That means they could still be here.”

“Well, no Harvey. There’s only Norma and myself left. A lot of the older partners left when Jessica and Daniel took over. People have retired, and moved on. And Daniel, of course, was eventually forced out. It’s just Norma and I left now, to keep his memory alive.”

Harvey eyed both of them closely. Could either of these two be a murderer? He was more inclined to suspect Norma. Her grief might be a manifestation of long-held guilt. And Porter … he seemed fond of Norma himself (at least of her former “babe” self). Or was it Arthur for whom he carried the flame? Was Arthur’s death a result of jealousy? He shook his head as if to clear if of these extraneous thoughts. He couldn’t concern himself with any of it now. Mike was still missing, and despite his outwardly careless attitude, Harvey had begun to grow worried for his associate. He reached for the key, only to have Porter snatch it back up.

“Paul?”

“You have the basic background. Now we need to fill you in on a few other things. Arthur Lakedale is not the only associate to die in that workroom on Halloween.”

 

******

 

Light, weak and diffuse, reached Mike from what seemed like far away. Although he still felt uncomfortably disconnected, awareness of his body had returned, if only in an odd, fuzzy, once-removed manner. Vision cleared slowly, until he could see his arms and hands and fingers, moving rapidly through papers crammed into a box.

Something was wrong. His hands had their own agenda. He wasn't controlling them. He tried. For long, fruitless seconds he attempted to impose his will upon his own limbs and digits, only to fail utterly.

_What is happening to me … ?_

"Shut up," his mouth hissed without his permission. "Shut up and behave or I'll send you straight back to The Gray."

If that was the cold place he'd been in before, Mike had no wish to return. He cowered in what he could only assume was a corner of his own mind, and watched his body in action. His hands moved like fleshly machines, fingers flicking through paper, elbow joints bending and straightening. He was impressed, in spite of himself, by the speed with which his animated phalanges tore through the box. What, he wondered after a time, were they (was he) looking for?

He must have wondered too forcefully.

"I warned you once."

_Wait, wait,_ he pleaded with … himself? _Maybe I can help. I do this sort of thing all day. What are we looking for?_

The answer did not come right away. He sensed a low-level buzz, just below the audible level. Was that the electrical synaptic firing of his brain being used to mull things over? He would have shuddered, if he'd been in control of his body, at the notion of the soft gray matter inside his skull being plundered by … whatever this strange entity was.

"I'm looking for Harrrdmannn," muttered his lips, dripping venom.

_Daniel Hardman? As in Pearson Hardman?_

"Heh. I chose well this time." Was there the slightest overtone of sarcasm in the voice … _his own_ voice? "Hardman is the goal."

Could one negotiate with a body-stealing entity? Mike decided he had nothing to lose by trying. _If I find his name on a document, do I get my body back?_

The sound of coarse laughter erupting from his throat would have made him shiver in terror, if he'd been able.

"You want a challenge? Hmm. Maybe. Maybe maybe maybe. I haven't decided. You have a decent physical form. Do you work out?"

_Well, shit._ This was an alarming turn. Mike tried not to panic. _Nope. Not even a little. I’m a mess. I have herpes and diabetes and, er … scoliosis._

"Ha. You're a terrible liar. You know I can read all your thoughts, right? Even the ones you don't know you're thinking."

_How would I know that? I never got an instruction manual for … whatever this is._ Mike ran through all of the possibilities, discarding nothing, and took a wild guess. _Are you a demon?_

A long pause followed the question, accompanied by more electrical brain-buzzing. Mike's filched fingers had paused as well, hovering over the box of documents. He tried to will them to move, but they weren't currently taking orders from him and remained stubbornly still.

"A _demon_? Nah. Nope. I don't think so. I've been dead a long time, though. Nothing is as clear as it used to be. Maybe that's what happens. There's no one to explain things here. Maybe if I'd had a proper orientation, I'd have moved on by now.”

_Are you saying you're a ghost? And I'm your meat suit?_

"What a grotesque turn of phrase. I'm possessing you, nitwit."

Isn't that what Mike had just said?   He wished he had a set of eyeballs to roll.

His fingers had started moving again, flipping the pages forward. Curious, Mike strained to see the words, even though the spirit possessing him did not appear to be paying attention, and had lost interest for the moment. It wasn’t easy to make anything out. He didn’t know how he was seeing at all. The world looked as if someone had smeared Vaseline over a camera lens. Still, a word on one of the swiftly moving pages leapt out at him.

_Wait! Go back a few pages. I'm sure I saw his name._

His fingers reversed direction.

_Stop! Right there. See, halfway down._ He waited, while his hand lifted the sheet of paper from the box and examined it raptly. Mike could just make out Hardman's name, some numbers, the word "Uruguay," and that was it, before his hand clutched it against his chest and his mouth and throat howled with unhinged glee.

"I did it! Finally. Finallleeee!"

_Hey. Let’s be accurate. I did it. Who's the nitwit now?_

Mike's head twisted suddenly to glare at the closed door. Was there a sound out there? Mike strained, but could not hear whatever had grabbed his possessed ears' attention.

"They're coming." His possessed hand shook the page. "I have what I need, and I’ve decided I’m not giving up this body.”

_What? No! You can’t do that._

“Oh, I think I can. Too bad, Michael Ross. Too bad for you."

_Your karmic payback for this is going to suck, man. And I -- aagh! What was that for, you crazy ass motherfucker?_

He hadn't felt it, but the sight of one of his hands stapling the page to his other hand with an electric stapler was enough to make him scream. Bright red blood welled up on the back of his hand and dripped to the floor.

His scream seemed to him as soundless as his words had been. The door to the room burst open. He felt a sharp tug, and a vibrating lurch, and then mind-shattering pain as his essence ripped away from his physical form and he sailed into endless gray nothingness.

 

******

 

"Twenty-five years ago, exactly five years after Arthur died, one of the shelves tipped over and killed a first year that was working late in that room. Back in those days, the shelves were still constructed of heavy oak. The poor kid never stood a chance."

"Could be a coincidence."

"Maybe," said Norma, "but the shelf happened to hold every box from the Murray file, which had been transferred there, even though the case was closed a few months after Arthur died."

"Five years after that," continued Porter, "another first year's heart gave out in that room. He was a marathoner and a tri-athlete."

"People die all the time. Even young, outwardly healthy people."

"On Halloween?" demanded Porter.

"And in that room?" asked Norma. “With his tie stapled to the table?”

Harvey frowned. "I'm not saying it isn't weird."

Porter held the key in the palm of his hand, staring down at it. "We kept the door locked at the end of October after that, except to show our respects on Halloween. Norma and I were on our way down just now." He nodded at the bouquet of lilies on his credenza.

Harvey let out an impatient huff. "What are we waiting for? I doubt Mike’s in there, but we should at least rule it out." Inside, he was quietly panicking, and picturing Mike crushed underneath an avalanche of file boxes, a stapler protruding from his forehead. He held his hand out for the key, but Porter shook his head.

"We're all going. This has gotten out of hand. Norma, I’ll hear no more arguments from you on the matter. Bring the salt."

Harvey shot Donna a look, but she appeared unfazed by Porter’s odd instruction.   Harvey wanted to break into a run, but settled for long, impatient strides, leading the way.

***

At the door to forty-three west, Porter inserted the key in the lock, cursing when he couldn't get it to turn.

"Let me," said Norma, pushing him aside with a surprising display of strength. She thrust the box of salt at him. "Hold this." At first, she had as little luck as Porter. She wiggled the key, angling it this way and that, and jiggled the doorknob. "Damn it." She knocked sharply. "Arthur," she called. "This has to stop. You need to -- "

Harvey would never know what she felt Arthur needed to do. At that moment, they all heard a scream inside the room, which sound pained and panicked and -- exactly like Mike. The scream cut off abruptly.

"Get that goddamned door open," he growled, just as Norma applied a shoulder to it. The door burst inwards, hitting the wall and rebounding almost all the way back to Norma.

Harvey set her forcibly aside and rushed into the room. Mike lay on the floor like a discarded doll, asleep or passed out, or … Harvey's mind refused to contemplate the last possibility. He stared at Mike's hand, and the paper stuck to it which was rapidly turning red as Mike's blood soaked into it. He knelt down and tried to lift the paper, but found it held in place by more than blood. A stapler lay on its side next to Mike, still plugged in, and currently malfunctioning, as if stuck in between modes.

_Click … tick-tick-tick,_ went the stapler.

Harvey knelt next to Mike and shook his shoulder, relieved to see that he was breathing.. "Mike. Wake up. Open your eyes, kid.”

He felt something light strike his back and turned to see Norma sprinkling salt all over the room.

"Pass over, Arthur,” she exhorted. “You damned stubborn fool."

“Norma?” A croaking, scratchy growl of a voice.

Harvey looked down to find Mike’s eyes open. His glance touched Harvey as if he didn’t recognize him, and moved on. When his gaze reached Norma, he sat up so suddenly he nearly bumped foreheads with Harvey.

“Norma. You’re still alive?”

She dropped the box of salt and knelt next to Harvey, pushing herself between him and Mike … or was it Arthur?

“I found it, Norma.” Mike/Arthur lifted his bleeding hand and shook it, causing the paper to flutter back and forth. “There’s no statute of limitations for murder. You need to make him pay for what he did.”

Capturing Mike’s hand, Harvey carefully pulled out the staple and scanned the page, even as he passed a handkerchief to Norma, who wrapped it around Mike’s hand.

“I’m not familiar with the case,” said Harvey slowly, “but this looks like a smoking gun.” He handed it to Porter.

“Daniel Hardman,” he snarled. “I knew it all along. That little weasel.” He gave Mike a fond smile. “Good work, Arthur.”

“But you have to move on now,” said Norma.

“I’ve just found you again. We can be together.”

“It won’t work.” She sighed. “Don’t make me use the salt on you.”

“The what, now?”

Norma held out her hand, and Porter placed the box of salt in it. “This might sting a little,” she said regretfully, and sprinkled salt on Mike's leg.”

Mike/Arthur flinched. “Ow.” He sprang to his feet and back away. “What did you do that for?”

Not entirely clear what was happening, but having caught on to the essential fact that Arthur Lakedale had taken Mike’s body, Harvey stood and advanced on him. “You have something that doesn’t belong to you. I’d call that larceny – in Mike’s case, grand larceny. You need to return it to him. _Now.”_

A high-pitched laugh spewed from Mike’s throat, which sounded both like and unlike Harvey’s associate. “I’ve been bumping around in The Gray for thirty fucking years. If I stay there any longer it will drive me mad. I deserve this body. I didn’t ask to be killed. I had my whole life ahead of me.”

“And so does Mike. I’m not saying you didn’t get dealt a bad hand, but that wasn’t Mike’s fault.” He saw Norma out of the corner of his eye, creeping closer with the box of salt. “So what happens if your girlfriend here dumps the rest of that salt over your head?”

Mike was backed against the wall now, and an uncertain look filled his face. “I don’t know. It will probably send me away. Maybe for good. Maybe not. But I have to give Mike’s soul permission to get back in his body. You can get rid of me if you want, for now, but you’re not getting him back.” A sly look slid over Mike’s face. “Too bad for you, Harvey. You should hear what he thinks about you. The things he wants to do … it’s enough to make a ghost blush.” He snickered.

Harvey’s brain locked up momentarily at what Arthur had implied. Could it be true? Did Mike feel the same way Harvey did? He struggled to regain a grip on his emotions. He’d never find out the answer to that if he didn’t convince Arthur to relinquish control of Mike’s body.

“What will it take?” he asked him.

Mike/Arthur’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what can we offer you, right now, to convince you to give Mike his body back, and do what you should have done thirty years ago – go gently into that good goddamn night? You’re going either way. The question is, are you going to do the right thing or not?”

Startled blue eyes gaped at him, and then softened and slid past him. “You’d really do it, Norma? You would salt me into oblivion?”

Her gravelly voice sounded gentler as she replied, “Yes, sweetheart. For your sake. It’s for the best.”

That was a messed up kind of love, thought Harvey, but it was still love.

A few moments passed while the ghost mulled things over. “Fine,” he finally said, voice sad and resigned. “I’ll do it. Mike Ross gets his body back, and I only want two things in return.”

“Name them.”

“First, you have to promise that Daniel Hardman will finally pay for my murder.”

“You have my word on it.” It would be Harvey’s utmost pleasure, actually, although he didn’t say so out loud. “What else?”

Now Mike/Arthur’s gaze dropped to the floor, and he bit his lip, appearing nervous. “I’d like one last kiss from Norma.”

_Even with her looking like that?_ Harvey nearly blurted out the unkind words, but stopped himself in time. Perhaps later, after this was all over, he’d take a minute to appreciate the concept of love enduring beyond all boundaries, and _yada, yada, yada,_ but for now he needed to wrap this negotiation up and close the damn ghost. Who knew how much damage was being done to Mike’s psyche every second he was in the … what had the ghost called it? The Gray. That did not sound appealing.

“Norma?” Harvey turned to look at her. “Are you okay with this?” He didn’t need to ask. Her hard eyes had gone dewy and soft, and she nodded rapidly, appearing two seconds away from bawling. Beyond her, Donna had a similar sappy look on her face. Porter’s features were pinched with annoyance, but he did not put up any arguments.

She handed the salt to Harvey, who stepped back and waved her in, blocking out all thoughts of how much disinfectant Mike’s lips would require before he’d go near them to confirm what Lakedale had implied. He was close enough to the action that he saw their mouths soften and meet, and heard the wet smacking of tongues and saliva and the faint clack of Norma’s dentures.

“Awww,” cooed Donna, sighing happily.

_Ewww,_ thought Harvey.

“Get a room,” muttered Paul Porter, who was starting to look as if he would like to see Arthur Lakedale murdered all over again.

They were perhaps a minute into the heated kiss, and Norma’s hands had crept around to cup Mike’s bottom, when his body went unnaturally stiff for a millisecond. His eyes popped open, and immediately filled with an expression of horror. He yanked his head to the side, freeing himself from the kiss with a lewd sounding _splurp,_ disentangled himself, and stutter-stepped away, nearly tripping over his own feet.

“What the holy, ever-loving fuck?” he squeaked, dragging the back of one hand over his lips. “Bad touch, lady. So very, very bad.” His shocked gaze took in the four of them. “What?”

Harvey had no doubt this was Mike, but Donna, practical as always, stepped forward. “How do we know for sure that it’s him? Lakedale could be trying to pull a fast one.”

Norma had collapsed onto one of the chairs, face covered with her hands, so Harvey stepped closer to Mike, pouring a small mound of salt into his palm and tossing it at Mike’s face.

“Hey! What the fuck, Harvey?” Indignant as a plucked chicken, Mike glared at Harvey accusingly, and brushed salt from his lapels.

“I’ll explain later,” Harvey reassured Mike. To the others, he said, “It’s definitely him. No one seethes quite like Mike Ross.”

“Hey, not cool,” Mike seethed at him.

Smiling fondly, Harvey flicked the last grains of salt from Mike’s shoulders. “You feel okay? What do you remember?”

Mike shuddered. “Everything and … _nothing.”_

“Nothing?”

“The place – the not-place – where he sent me. I felt so hopeless. And non-existent. And … and … cold.” He began to tremble, either from remembered cold or from reaction to his experience.

Harvey hesitated, and then wrapped an arm around Mike’s shoulders. “Let’s get you out of here. I’ll buy you a nice hot cup of coffee.” Norma still appeared too shaken to speak, so Harvey addressed himself to Porter. “Is that it? Is it over? No more ghosts? No more associate possession?”

Porter shrugged, frowning. “Who can say for sure?” He studied Norma worriedly. “It might not hurt to get some … professionals in here to take a look.”

“You mean like an exorcist?” asked Harvey doubtfully. “Or a spiritualist?”

“Let me take care of it.” This, from Donna. Harvey eyed her, one eyebrow raised. “I might know a couple of guys.” She gave them a tight-lipped smile. “Seriously, I’ve got this.”

Harvey believed her. He was only too happy to get out of there, and to take Mike with him. As he ushered his associate to the door, a sharp burst of sound at their feet made them both freeze.

_Click … tick-tick-tick. Click … tick-tick—_

With an animal growl, Mike reached down and yanked the cord out of the wall. “Shut the hell up!” The electric stapler went silent.

“Fucking thing was getting on my nerves,” he explained to the four sets of wide eyes staring at him. “What? Harvey, I think you mentioned something about coffee. Some of us were up all night working, and getting ghost-raped, and solving murders and so forth. I could use some caffeine. And maybe you’d consider giving me the rest of the day off?”

He was babbling on at a mile a minute as Harvey trailed him out of the workroom. They turned a corner, and seeing that the hallway was empty, Harvey grabbed Mike’s elbow and dragged him into a shallow alcove. He held Mike’s face between his hands and gazed down at Mike’s suddenly quiet but half-open mouth.

“You may not have the day off,” he murmured lowly, “but you can sleep on my couch for as long as you need to, where I can keep a close eye on you.”

“I said I was fine.”

“Nevertheless.”  

Mike leaned his head back against the wall. “For a second there, I thought you were about to kiss me.”

“For a second there,” admitted Harvey with a half-smile, “I thought I might.”

Mike gave him a searching gaze. “What stopped you?” His voice had gone breathless.

“You have to ask?”

Mike appeared to think for a second. He nodded, and spoke in unison with a now hugely grinning Harvey.

“Norma.”

 

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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